


Parting Glance

by kyIians



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Happy Ending, I Will Go Down With This Ship, M/M, Neymar loves Kylian, Partner Betrayal, been in the drafts since 2020 publishing on a whim, idk how many chapters yet bear with me, kylian is angsty as usual, kylian loves neymar, neybappe - Freeform, neymar is back to barca, neymar left and kylian has a hard time dealing with it, psg feels betrayed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-13 06:00:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28773492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyIians/pseuds/kyIians
Summary: The one where Neymar goes back to Barcelona and Kylian tries to let go.
Relationships: Kylian Mbappé & Neymar, Kylian Mbappé/Neymar
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	Parting Glance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheNextPage](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheNextPage/gifts).



For as long as he can manage, Kylian ignores the plethora of missed phone calls and the arsenal of messages that come his way. 

He does his best not to grant media platforms or pundits a shred of the attention they so badly sought after. He knows situations like these, stories like this, are inflammatory, and in their wake would only plough out of the soil the most hideous of creatures. He knows too well how this goes. The rumours it would provoke. It was only expected. 

His mother had always told him; what one can expect, one should prepare for. Those words were gospel to him. They lay the groundwork and equip him with plans ranging from A to C. He'd perhaps become multifaceted under that pretence. Yet, nothing, not even plan Z, could've prepared him for this. 

He can only recall the ache. The recollection coming easy since it was bitterly familiar. The prolonged dull twinge that never left him - that had become a part of him. It was the first thing he felt and the only thing he remembers feeling. 

His expression is null, void of any characteristic smile. It was unlike him. Kylian Mbappé, the one whose emotion was not a face he wore, the one who smiled for the fans and the children regardless of the scoreboard, it was far from. He barely realises the facade coming loose at the seams, the mask that was slowly slipping off his face. In that moment, he became entirely vulnerable. 

Yet he couldn't help it. Whilst the cameras were brazenly snapping innumerable pictures of what they presumed was his unusual reaction to their fourth consecutive loss, his attention was elsewhere entirely. He was too stunned to maintain the charade. He couldn't hold the act together. He doesn't think anyone in his place could. 

The dull ache strengthens, pangs, like a captive trying to break out of his chest. The longer his gaze remains fixated the harder the cage rattles. Until he physically can't take it anymore and that's when he's racing down the tunnel, sparing not a second glance for the home supporters or the coach who yells after him. He knows it's wrong, unprofessional, but right now he's suddenly nauseous and entirely unpredictable. His emotion seemingly no longer in his control. 

Kylian doesn't miss the dispensed looks of concern around the dressing room either. They're so glaringly overt he thinks only someone stupid wouldn't catch them. He can see the stifled glance Thiago offers him when he thinks the younger is unaware, it's a gesture he's all too familiar with and therefore manages to swiftly curb. Everyone wants to ask him what happened, what was wrong, if everything was okay. That much, was the elephant in the room. The pregnant silence that typically came with the crushing sense of defeat. 

Kylian, despite the fact, win or loss, wasn't characteristically explosive so his emotive body language was new territory for everyone. Nevertheless, he doesn't give them time to figure out how to approach it before he's already packed up and out the door. 

"What the hell's that about?" Marquinhos whispers, as though he were afraid Kylian was still in ear-shot. 

"Did you see his face when the whistle blew?" Eric prompts, worry enrapturing him. "I've never seen anything like it!"

"It doesn't make sense, we lost 1-0 to Nice not 4-0 to Barca." 

"And even then, he doesn't usually react like that. Something's wrong." Thiago discerns with a sigh. 

There's a collective consensus around the dressing room it seems, because suddenly all the players are engrossed in trying to figure out what could have possibly peeved Kylian to the point of explosion. From one corner Thilo suggests; maybe Kylian was upset about it being their fourth consecutive loss. A notion quickly swept under the carpet when Julian points out he didn't behave this way over a five loss streak they'd suffered in the past. From another corner Marco proposes the idea that maybe Kylian had seen someone he didn't want to see, since he'd been so immersed in the stands. 

The proposal was generally accepted, since it was the closest to an explanation they could rake up. And they had quickly preoccupied themselves in a game of guess who, when someone frantically barges through the door. 

"Kylian!" 

It was as though their clarification had come from a higher power above, because none other than, a very disoriented, Neymar, stood under the door frame, weight balanced on a pair of crutches.

It made sense then. 

He's breathing furiously, as though he'd just attempted a marathon, a heat of the moment sweat slicking stray curls to his forehead. There's a wide look of disappointment on his face, but a threatening determination in his posture. Though he was disheveled, he was dressed to the nines as usual, a large, rather expensive-looking, hoodie adorning his upper torso. 

"Where is he?" He questions without preemption. He still has that wild look about him, like prey running after it's predator in a faux attempt to fool it into thinking it was anything but. 

No one responds to him immediately. Most of the players know it isn't their place. Both on Kylian's behalf, and because it was commonly the captain's call whether or not to indulge a visitor. Because that was what Neymar was to them now. A mere visitor, like a fan, attending their game. 

Thiago hesitates, but an exhale of vanquish makes his shoulders slump. He's sure everyone around the club is as tired of this narrative as he is, so he's quick to give in. "He's just left." He gestures to the door. 

That's all it takes for Neymar to haul himself in that direction, the meagre sound of his struggle echoing around the silence. No one offers to help because in a way they all feel the way Kylian does. That displacement one usually felt toward a former teammate. 

"If you run, you might catch him." Presnel calls out after Neymar with a tinge of resentment in his words - a joke (read: mockery) that goes a long way in easing away the tension in the room. 

And run he tries, but there's only so far Neymar can go without worsening his condition. Injury time he couldn't afford to prolong. Yet, despite all the odds, he pushes his body beyond, because he knows this is his only chance, he pushes and pushes until he can discern a silhouette in the distance of the Parc des Princes car park. Until the burden of hope that enabled him was no longer burden. 

"Kylian!" He yells, lugging himself into the heavy downpour without precaution. Funny it was how the weather paralleled reality in the most ironic of ways. The overcast grey clouds, rain beating down so thick and heavy, water gurgling down the asphalt into overloaded storm drains. Dreary, like his luck. 

Like his life after he left. 

Nor was it any help, the elder found, in confirming or denying his presumption that the silhouette was indeed Kylian. He wasn't hesitant however to find out for himself. That much obvious in his stubborn resolution. In the way he heaved the cast that was almost as heavy as him, and now heavier sodden in rain, until he felt a burn in his chest. 

"Kylian!" He shouts again, the droplets pelting down offer some cool relief against his parching skin. "Hey!"

A sinking feeling encompasses him when he notices the figure, now glaringly deliberate in its disregard of his effort, get into the driver's seat of the car. He was certain it was Kylian. Characteristically, physique-wise. Certain enough to toss his crutches aside, and with the facility and coordination of a 5 year old, distribute his weight onto the injured leg without forewarning. 

The world in that moment rushes by in a blur, he can see the reverse lights of the car flash and barely has time to comprehend the pain that awaits him on impact over the persistence in his chest. It goes by fast, yet slow, almost suspended. One minute he was up on his feet and the next he's facing the asphalt, limbs jangled, a sharp pain crippling him. He wants to scream out but he holds back, knowing it would bring him more attention than necessary. 

"Idiot." He thinks he hears among the violent thrumming of the rain. 

It elicits him to peer up with a tearful squint, Kylian stood over him with an umbrella. He's glaring down at Neymar with disapproval, but the elder can recognise the covert agitation that characterises Kylian's concern. The fact that he was using the umbrella to shield him from the rain was evidence enough that some of him still remotely cared. 

"Ky-"

"Did you get hurt?" He abruptly cuts Neymar off, kneeling down to his level. He's focused on Neymar's cast and the awkward positioning of his leg, reaching out to lever it into a reclined position while muttering idiot again under his breath. 

"It doesn't hurt." Neymar denies, but Kylian spares him a stare of doubt when the elder winces mid sentence. 

"Reckon you can make it to the car?" Kylian proposes after a feat of silence, still adamantly avoiding eye contact with the elder. Neymar thinks it's his coping mechanism - recognises it as his method of keeping the demons at bay. In that way, Kylian was a lot like a pressure cooker. Steadfast, unbothered and then sudden eruption. A consequence Neymar's animated persona was foreign to and familiar with, in the most bittersweet ways. 

He doesn't need to hear Neymar's response. He's so used to doing what he pleases it comes like second nature to him. The inclination to take charge. And Neymar lets him. He always did. 

He helps Neymar up, fetching his strewn crutches off the ground, and then slings his arm around Neymar's waist without even the remnants of a flinch. He was stoic, completely unfazed, and they both circumvented the inevitable tension that came with how familiar the touch felt. Kylian doesn't let Neymar indulge in its implications, before he's already ringing the seatbelt around his torso, clicking it into place. 

It's when Kylian too is buckled up in the driver's seat that the tension thickens to the point of materialisation. It's tangible, Neymar can almost taste it on his tongue. That bitter unsaid between them. All the missed calls and ignored messages. The futile attempts. It's as though they had come to life in front of him to tease the impossible. 

"Did you get assigned a medical?" Kylian asks absently, revving the engine so the car roared to life. 

"Yeah," Neymar swallows audibly at the thought of how his response were to be received, "He's in Barcelona right now."

Kylian doesn't say anything. Doesn't need to, his tightening grip on the steering wheel expression enough for Neymar to understand the subject was still sore. His silence is also communication in itself, the discomfort between them a foreign entity. The change was an agony that taunted Neymar. 

"How have you be-" He tries to relieve the unease with small talk like he usually does, but Kylian anticipates him. 

"Do you need to see a doctor?" He asks abruptly.

"I told you it doesn't hurt. See," He moves his injured leg to the side without visible struggle, and anyone would have been fooled, but Kylian wasn't. He knew him well enough to look out for the way he gripped the thigh of his other leg to keep from wincing. 

But if Neymar insisted he was fine, it wasn't Kylian's place anymore to discredit that. He couldn't overplay his hand, he was already going further than intended by having Neymar in his passenger seat.

"Where are you staying?" 

Neymar looks positively disappointed by the insinuation that Kylian didn't want him around, but what more could he expect.

"I thought maybe we could talk." He opts for soft spoken subtlety, cautiously eying Kylian's every move. 

"What's left to say?" 

It's so blunt it disorients Neymar for a moment. The conviction behind it so authentic, the elder didn't doubt for a second it was how the younger truly felt. That there was nothing else between them. That it was pointless. And couldn't be fixed. It was everything Neymar feared would happen. 

"Don't be like that." He mumbles under his breath. 

"Like what?" Kylian makes no effort to pretend he didn't hear. "How do you want me to act?"

Neymar sighs. "Nothing's changed Kylian, it doesn't have to be-"

"Nothing's changed?" Kylian bitterly chuckles, veins of annoyance protruding on his forehead. He looks seconds away from eruption, and the sight alone makes Neymar recoil. 

"Everything's changed Ney." He speaks monotonously. As if he's stripped the subject from all emotion. "Stop playing naive."

Silence accompanies them for the rest of the car journey. Neymar doesn't disclose where he's staying and Kylian doesn't press any further. Neymar too refrains from asking where the younger's taking them, afraid he might push the wrong button and the volcano erupts. He lets the frenchman take him where he pleases. Relishing in the nostalgia of being in his presence once again. He keeps his eyes downcast on his fidgeting hands for most of the journey, save for the occasional stolen glances at the younger. 

When they do pull up, he barely realises it. Too lost in trying to think up an excuse to validate his actions. He finds himself drawing blanks, the thought of losing Kylian, which he deemed impossible, disorienting him. By the time he comes to, Kylian has already disappeared into, what he now recognises as, the garage door. 

It takes him a while to follow suit thanks to his disadvantage, a lot of twisting and stretching to find his way out of the car, but once he's finally inside he halts all movement. It was Kylian's house. The place he had gotten shortly before Neymar's departure. The place he had constantly gushed to Neymar about. The perfect home. The one that was supposed to be theirs.

Yet, everything about it was so — imperfect, Neymar almost felt alienated. It was nothing like the house he'd seen a few months ago. It was dull, colourless, and void of any character. Kylian's touch remotely no where. Not a pair of his shorts tossed carelessly on the floor, or a treacherous poster of Ronaldo hung up in some corner of the house. There wasn't a cup out of place nor a stain in sight. Neymar almost doubted the younger, or anyone for that matter, had lived here at all. When did he become so meticulous? When did he lose his touch?

"Go get changed." Kylian's stoic voice echoes in the stillness and it takes Neymar a moment to realise it's coming from the bathroom. "Your clothes are soaked."

He doesn't wait behind for Kylian to direct him, he already knows which room is his. It was the reason Kylian was so set on the house, the rooftop bedroom that seized his desire. It was beautiful, at least Neymar remembers it being so. He didn't know what to expect now when he eventually makes it up those stairs. 

The number of stairs makes it clear that the order was some sort of punishment in disguise by the younger. Neymar wasn't disheartened though. He knows how Kylian gets when he's hurt. He feels as though it was a challenge by the frenchman, to test just how badly he wanted to be here. To make up for him leaving here in the first place. 

By the time he's changed and back down, Kylian's sat on the couch with a solemn expression and a first aid kit by his side. He's still as a rock and staring ahead blankly. Neymar hesitates in the hallway for a moment, gathering himself together. He heaves in a deep breath to try and settle the now throbbing pain in his leg after the strenuous task of tackling the staircase.

"Sit let me see it." Kylian begins, but freezes when he turns to finally face Neymar. 

The elder knew the implications of choosing to wear this specific shirt. Out of all of Kylian's clothes. He knew this one would resonate with him the most. And perhaps he wanted to make a statement. Or maybe it was just that bittersweet nostalgia that kept him up at night. But to have the crest on his chest, right against his hammering heart, felt like being home again. 

Kylian couldn't tear his gaze away. It was as if it were his first time seeing Neymar in that shirt. He swears the dark indigo didn't compliment anyone's complexion better. The mere sight of it brought a flurry of memories gushing back, the image of Neymar in nothing but his PSG shirt and a pair of boxers prancing around the apartment was raw. He felt a violent upheaval from within — a sudden nausea at the realisation that the number on the back was not a 10 but a 7, and the name, as much as he wished it were, was not Neymar's but his own. 

It was a relentless reminder that Neymar wasn't here anymore. 

Yet it still made Kylian's stomach squeeze unnaturally, like the first time he saw Neymar in his shirt. It was territorial in some ways, to see what is inherently yours, embraced as though it weren't. To see your name branded on someone like that, someone you so strongly feel for, you want it to stick. You want it to be theirs. You want them to be yours.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys, I’m back from the dead with a neybappe fanfic, I hope you guys enjoy!! This work is dedicated to @TheNextPage who inspired me to finally get this out of the drafts and into the world, thank you for being an amazing, supportive human being and I can’t thank you enough for the gifted fics!!! I hope you enjoy this!! :’)


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